repressively.
‘She was about at the end of the evening?’ Gil persisted. ‘You’re certain you saw her then?’
‘Well, I must ha done, for I never missed her. You could ask at the other lassies, if you’re—’ She paused, staring up at him. ‘Are you saying maybe it was one o her regulars that’s put her here? Is that why you’re asking?’ Gil nodded. ‘Oh, I wouldny say that, maister. They’re wild enough lads, but none o my customers would—’
‘Someone did,’ observed the man in the hide apron. Mistress Howie would have answered him, but there was a disturbance at the door of the chapel, where more spectators had gathered; a pushing and elbowing, a rising tide of indignant comments suddenly swallowed, heralded the arrival of a scrawny man with lank black hair and a scarred face, his blue bonnet clamped to his head by a stiff leather hood with a short cape. He dragged both these off as he emerged from the crowd, looking round desperately.
‘Peg!’ he said. ‘Where is she? What’s come to her?’
‘You ken well enough what’s come to her, Billy Baird,’ responded Mistress Howie tartly. ‘There she lies, dead and cold, covered in the marks you laid on her. You’ll not raise your hand to her again, you ill-doer.’
‘Peg!’ said the newcomer again, ignoring all of this but the most significant point. He flung himself at the bier and pulled back the linen, stared for a horrified moment, and turned to the crowd.
‘Who the hell did this? I swear by all the saints, if I find who’s treated my Peg like that I’ll have his lights for garters. Who did it?’ he demanded, as if someone present was concealing the information.
‘Listen to you!’ said Mistress Howie scornfully. ‘You’ll be telling us next you never put a bruise on her yoursel!’
‘I never put these on her,’ said Baird fiercely. ‘I never did more than show her what was right. A man can chastise his own woman, I suppose. Look at that, she’s taen a vicious beating, way ayont what’s reasonable!’
Gil, trying to imagine how one might find beating one’s wife reasonable, said,
‘When did you last see her?’
Baird turned dark eyes on him.
‘Who’re you?’ he demanded aggressively. Several voices told him, with varying degrees of triumph, that this was the Archbishop’s quaestor. He considered Gil with contempt, scratched at his codpiece, then said, ‘Aye well, I hope you’re on the trail of whoever slew her already.’
‘I’m still trying to pick up the trail,’ said Gil. ‘So when did you see her last?’
The dark gaze slid away from his.
‘That would be last night,’ he said. ‘No long after the alehouse closed.’
‘Oh, the leear!’ said Mistress Howie. ‘When she slept at home wi you!’
‘She never!’ said the man desperately. ‘She never, she went away out, and I wish she hadny! I tried to stop her!’
‘A good tale that is,’ said the man in the green hood.
‘When did she go out?’ Gil asked.
‘After the alehouse closed. I said.’ Baird brushed something from his eye. ‘She came down the back to our place, and then she went out again.’
‘Why?’ Gil asked patiently. ‘What took her out again, in the dark, after an evening’s work?’
‘He’s having you on, maister,’ said the woman in the striped kirtle. ‘He’s slew her himself, no doubt of it. Ask them ’at dwells down the same pend.’
‘No I never!’ protested Baird. ‘I never did! She left me, she left our house, and I looked for her to come back, and she never did, no afore I had to go out to my work afore Prime. I never saw her again, till.’ He stopped, staring at the bier, and scratched behind his codpiece again. ‘Till now.’
‘Why did she go out?’ Gil asked again.
‘She said she had to see someone. She wanted a word wi someone.’
‘At that hour?’ said the man in the hide apron. ‘When decent folks are all in their beds? What was she about?’
‘Maybe in someone’s bed and
‘She was about at the end of the evening?’ Gil persisted. ‘You’re certain you saw her then?’
‘Well, I must ha done, for I never missed her. You could ask at the other lassies, if you’re—’ She paused, staring up at him. ‘Are you saying maybe it was one o her regulars that’s put her here? Is that why you’re asking?’ Gil nodded. ‘Oh, I wouldny say that, maister. They’re wild enough lads, but none o my customers would—’
‘Someone did,’ observed the man in the hide apron. Mistress Howie would have answered him, but there was a disturbance at the door of the chapel, where more spectators had gathered; a pushing and elbowing, a rising tide of indignant comments suddenly swallowed, heralded the arrival of a scrawny man with lank black hair and a scarred face, his blue bonnet clamped to his head by a stiff leather hood with a short cape. He dragged both these off as he emerged from the crowd, looking round desperately.
‘Peg!’ he said. ‘Where is she? What’s come to her?’
‘You ken well enough what’s come to her, Billy Baird,’ responded Mistress Howie tartly. ‘There she lies, dead and cold, covered in the marks you laid on her. You’ll not raise your hand to her again, you ill-doer.’
‘Peg!’ said the newcomer again, ignoring all of this but the most significant point. He flung himself at the bier and pulled back the linen, stared for a horrified moment, and turned to the crowd.
‘Who the hell did this? I swear by all the saints, if I find who’s treated my Peg like that I’ll have his lights for garters. Who did it?’ he demanded, as if someone present was concealing the information.
‘Listen to you!’ said Mistress Howie scornfully. ‘You’ll be telling us next you never put a bruise on her yoursel!’
‘I never put these on her,’ said Baird fiercely. ‘I never did more than show her what was right. A man can chastise his own woman, I suppose. Look at that, she’s taen a vicious beating, way ayont what’s reasonable!’
Gil, trying to imagine how one might find beating one’s wife reasonable, said,
‘When did you last see her?’
Baird turned dark eyes on him.
‘Who’re you?’ he demanded aggressively. Several voices told him, with varying degrees of triumph, that this was the Archbishop’s quaestor. He considered Gil with contempt, scratched at his codpiece, then said, ‘Aye well, I hope you’re on the trail of whoever slew her already.’
‘I’m still trying to pick up the trail,’ said Gil. ‘So when did you see her last?’
The dark gaze slid away from his.
‘That would be last night,’ he said. ‘No long after the alehouse closed.’
‘Oh, the leear!’ said Mistress Howie. ‘When she slept at home wi you!’
‘She never!’ said the man desperately. ‘She never, she went away out, and I wish she hadny! I tried to stop her!’
‘A good tale that is,’ said the man in the green hood.
‘When did she go out?’ Gil asked.
‘After the alehouse closed. I said.’ Baird brushed something from his eye. ‘She came down the back to our place, and then she went out again.’
‘Why?’ Gil asked patiently. ‘What took her out again, in the dark, after an evening’s work?’
‘He’s having you on, maister,’ said the woman in the striped kirtle. ‘He’s slew her himself, no doubt of it. Ask them ’at dwells down the same pend.’
‘No I never!’ protested Baird. ‘I never did! She left me, she left our house, and I looked for her to come back, and she never did, no afore I had to go out to my work afore Prime. I never saw her again, till.’ He stopped, staring at the bier, and scratched behind his codpiece again. ‘Till now.’
‘Why did she go out?’ Gil asked again.
‘She said she had to see someone. She wanted a word wi someone.’
‘At that hour?’ said the man in the hide apron. ‘When decent folks are all in their beds? What was she about?’
‘Maybe in someone’s bed and
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